


them in-laws, huh?

by nadia5803



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29165361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadia5803/pseuds/nadia5803
Summary: i don’t think i touched on their dynamic in ukrainian sleepover enough, but
Kudos: 1





	them in-laws, huh?

Olek Mikhailnovych Slobodyan, as a captive of the European state, was seldom allowed to see visitors in his isolated Polish captivity. And while he may have held his allegiance to a certain breakaway republic, his passport and citizenship was still blue and yellow, making his coveted visitors readily available to him. His imprisonment was merely a jaunt across the Western border. Today, he was restless and expecting a visit from his favorite presidential figure.

When footsteps echoed down the hallway, Misha rushed to the door, on his toes as he tried to steal a look into the hall. As the footsteps grew in volume, he switched on the light bulb and hurried back to his seat. 

“Is that who I think it is?” he warbled.

Misha’s face fell upon seeing not Pietro, but rather Olesya Naumenko appear in the doorway. Smiling, with a nicely wrapped pie tin in hand, she approached a bristling Misha.

“Where is he?” Misha demanded, sticking out a furious pointer finger. “I was told I’d be seeing him!”

Olesya shrugged, nonplussed by his temper. “Pietro’s a busy man, you know, being a President and all. He’s got things to do, conflicts he can’t get out of. He also told me you like cherry, hm?” she hummed, setting the pie on the table and peeling back a few layers of wrap. “I only have plastic and paper utensils, I must apologize for that, but they were adamant.”

Still seething in the corner, Misha grumbled some inaudible response and crossed his arms. Wobbling on his feet, he straightened his head and declared, “I’m a president myself. I see his dilemma. If he is truly unable to be here and sad about this instance, then I suppose it’s no big deal.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and sat down at the table, twirling a plastic spoon. As Olesya fiddled with the last of her things, Misha couldn’t help but notice a curve that had not been there previously on her stomach. Averting his gaze to the dim lightbulb above, he cleared his throat. “Send him my regards.”

“I will,” she replied, pushing the tin towards him

and tossing her bag over her shoulder. “Since it appears you don’t want to bother yourself with me, I best be off.” 

He quietly fussed with the cover and stuck the spoon into the pie, not bothering to cut or slice it beforehand. “Ah... wait a moment, please.”

Olesya released her hand from the doorknob and faced the former sergeant. He spun the plastic spoon around before pointing it at her, first meeting her eyes and then lowering them to her stomach. “Forgive me. Are you... with child?”

“You can say pregnant,” she said with a snort. Setting her bag back down on the floor, she pulled out a chair and sat a safe distance away from him. Putting a hand over her slightly swollen belly, she replied, “Yes. Yes, I am with child, as you put it.”

Misha swallowed, taking a moment to soak in the news. He balked, returning to fidgeting with the tiny spoon and unsuccessfully chipping at the cherry pie. “Congratulations,” he said, breaking the weary silence. 

“Thank you,” she said, watching as he continued to battle with the crust. “I’m sorry Pietro couldn’t deliver the news to you himself.” 

“When are you due?” 

Olesya fumbled with her wedding ring. “Around July. I don’t know the gender yet. I’m looking forward to it though, and so is he.”

“Hm,” Misha lowered his head. 

She stood up got to her feet and pulled out a plastic knife, keeping it low until she began to slice the pie across its horizontal axis. “You look like you’re having trouble. This might be of some use to you.”

“I haven’t maintained my strength over these last few months,” he mumbled sheepishly, sitting criss-cross on the chair. 

“There’s no need to excuse yourself to me. I understand. The pie is yours,” Olesya said, tapping the aluminium tin. “I assume you can’t get your hands on many sweets anymore. Enjoy this. Let Pietro know if you want more when he comes back.”

“I want more,” Misha announced before he had even forked his first helping into his mouth. “I miss not shit food.” His spoon was full of broken crust and split red cherries. “And bring ice cream next time, too.”

“I fear it’ll melt,” she replied with a smile. 

Misha went silent as he hounded the pie, tearing through it much more easily now and with the ravenousness of a schoolchild. “Thank you,” he mumbled in between bites. “I appreciate the gesture, Miss Naumenko.” Then, energized by the heaping load of sugar, he wiped his mouth and rattled off what he had been meaning to ask. “How is that step-brother of yours, Dmitry Myronenkovo’s one? And how is Allochka? Is she well? Is Pietro much more busy these days?” 

Raising her eyebrows at this sudden interrogation, Olesya made herself comfortable on the chair. It was not a very comfortable chair, so she shifted until she found herself sitting upright. “Oh, Olexey? Olexey is well. Still at the Energy ministry, now engaged.”

“Good, good, that position fits him very well. And Alla?”

“Alla is flourishing. Doing very well at her new post, assisting with matters of foreign policy and the like. I’d say she’s very happy here, although she sorely misses you,” Olesya said, meeting Misha’s gaze. “I’m sorry. It was an unfortunate compromise. Pietro seethed about it too, but it was out of his hands. She sends you well wishes. And,” she interrupted herself, snapping her fingers, “her hair is more brown now.”

“Oh, wonderful! She only dyed it after her appointment to her position, I’m happy she is well. I sorely miss her too,” he sighed, deep in nostalgia. “Send her my fondest regards.”

“Fonder than the ones for my husband?”

“Fonder than Petrochka’s,” he replied. “And he is…?”

“He has his hands full, certainly. He regrets not being able to come today. He’s away in Croatia, meeting with some other figures. I fear he’s spending more time away than at home,” she said, smiling sadly. “But I’m proud of all he’s accomplished. My dear Lyosha is caring for me at home and Alla has been a light. Pietro is doing so much.”

“Mmm. I’d be lying if I said I never doubted that,” Misha muttered, drawing his finger across the table. Olesya chuckled at that. Sheepishly, he pushed his pie tin back across the table, leaving about a quarter of the pastry behind. 

“That’s all?” Olesya said. “Well, you certainly enjoyed it.”

“I did, very much so. Thank you for your kindness.”

Olesya stood, taking the remaining piece and beginning to wrap it up. “I hope you don’t mind if I begin one of my spiels,” she started. “But it does seem appropriate now. I think you may have a good chance of being let off rather easy.”

Misha scoffed. “Please, you’re a mighty fine baker, but I doubt you understand my particular situation, no matter how much Pietro has told you.”

“Private Slobodyan,” Olesya placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. Misha cringed at the reminder of his coveted military title being dishonorably ripped from him. “Need I remind you I am a contemporary historian and I am no fool when it comes to my husband’s international involvement. I am more than a good baker. And I may not be a lawyer, and you may be some unique unprecedented history-maker, you, but I am telling you what I know from years of experience. You think I spent my life learning of this country’s history so you could dismiss me? Please.” 

That shut Misha up to the point where his face was completely flushed, and she continued. “As I said, you’re a bit of an isolated case. But, Private, I do think you might have a fair chance of some light treatment by Europe’s trustees. After all, they have a history of being soft with war criminals. I doubt you’ll be elevated to Prime Minister but I also highly doubt that you will spend your life in solitary, or that you will be sent to the death chamber. You’re a despicable man, but they believe you might be a useful pawn in the game later.” Olesya pointed to the ceiling and lifted her head. “Pawn takes pawn, pawn takes knight, pawn takes bishop, pawn takes king. You’ll be a good poster reformant for the Westerners.”

Misha stumbled over his response, trembling from either his sugar rush or his rage. “How dare you?” he demanded to a still unfazed Olesya, who once again waited for his oncoming anger to thaw. “I am no— pawn! Especially not to their likes! I would never willingly do that.”

“You might not have a choice.”

“Excuse me?” he said, doing a double take. 

Olesya stared at her nails then back up at a perplexed Misha. “Olek Mikhailnovych, _if_ you happen to be freed, you will learn quickly that you will not be in an autonomous position. In fact, you will be the furthest from it. You’re a card now, and you have very little control over what happens next.” Smoothing her dress and pushing her hair behind her ear, she got to her feet. “My husband, as much as he will never publicly say it, as much as he will never bluntly tell me so, has a soft spot for you. You are still like a brother to him. He carries that damned photo in his wallet, do you know that?” She stuck a finger in his face and he leaned back, eyebrows raised. “He will protect you. And he has friends in high places, and that will come to your benefit very quickly. You best not throw his sacrifices away for your own selfish wants, understand?”

He nodded wordlessly, lips pursed. As she pulled her finger back, he relaxed in his chair, melting into it. “I understand,” he said, blinking as he regained the breath he was holding. “I’m sorry,” Misha mumbled, looking childlike as he fussed with his empty spoon. 

“Apologies mean nothing. Please do the right thing, whatever that may be for you. Also, Misha. One more thing about me, the _mighty fine baker,_ ” she said in air quotes, approaching the table. She held out her wrist and showed a small tattoo, an outline of a tiny peninsula all too familiar to Misha’s eyes. He balked again, finding his mouth dry as she continued. “You may think me to be much too posh for you, but our backgrounds are not all different. Sevastopol isn’t much different from Donetsk, no? And my birth family is not much different than yours. Keep it in mind. Do the right thing.” She peeked in her bag and handed him the last of the pie. “And you can keep that, I suppose. Just to hold yourself over. Good night,” she said, starting out the door.

“Miss Naumenko,” Misha called out, lifting a shaky hand and waving. “Thank you for the kind words. Please remember to, to, to deliver my regards as speedily as possible.”

“I will, Private.” She didn’t look back at him, and the door shut behind her.

  
  



End file.
